Tempting Fate
by Sitiah3
Summary: "If I requested you to accompany me back to my chambers what would your response be?" "Well…if you were to make such a request of me, then I presume I would be obligated to accept." Pre-battle of the burning plains through Inheritance, Murtagh/OC
1. The Bargain

**Hello everyone! This is just something I wrote cause hey why not? Warning for lemons and the like. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing as usual (except for the oc). **

Chapter 1: The Bargain

Murtagh swirled the red liquid inside his cup moodily. He did not want to be here. Indeed he would not have attended at all had the king not demanded his presence. Now it seemed he had come for no reason whatsoever except to watch silly nobles traipse about as they got drunker and drunker.

Dinner had been a miserable affair. The courtiers high enough in position to sit with the king had traded jokes and stories, most of which had already been told on more than one occasion, and were generally in very bad taste. It had been all he could do not to spring up and stab the offenders with the cutlery. But no doubt that would have resulted in unpleasant consequences, so he had contented himself with pushing the food around on his plate. Murtagh rarely ate these days—despite Galbatorix's admonishments that he should keep up his strength—instead he survived on the energy forced to him through the enslaved dragons that the king had so "graciously" gifted him. He simply could not find the will.

But while his plate remained untouched his goblet certainly had not. It had become his personal mission of the night to become as drunk as possible, and so far he was succeeding wonderfully. He had long ago lost count of how many times the seemingly mute servants had refilled his glass, and his head felt pleasantly fuzzy. It was, he thought, a good way of forgetting.

He frowned, watching the nobles as they laughed and danced, and chatted about mundane things. A woman with her face rouged so that she appeared feverish was bowing to a man in royal purple doublet, who tapped his foot impatiently. Behind them several young gentle men were gesturing animatedly. And nearby a woman in a forget me not blue gown was winding her way through the party goers. Unlike the others she appeared slightly startled, like she knew she did not belong here. He could relate to that.

What it wouldn't be like, he wondered, to live like all of them, free of all but the most benign concerns. Once upon a time that might have been his fate, to grow old and fat on fine foods, but he had grown far too cynical and self-aware to be dazzled by this show of power and wealth. Instead he preferred to sit here and drink, and watch the world go by. But even that got boring.

As gently as he could he reached out with his mind to brush against Thorn's conscious. The dragon was sleeping. The king had been using magic to increase his growth again today, something that always left Thorn exhausted. Carefully Murtagh withdrew his mental probe. Thorn had earned his rest and he had no desire to disturb his partner merely because he was bored.

"Are you enjoying the party my lord?" Blinking he looked up to see Lady Adelina Beauson leaning across the table. She had been sitting across from him all through dinner, something that Murtagh already cursed thoroughly.

"No."

"Well _that's _a shame." She smiled showing even white teeth, "Here I was thinking you'd fancy a dance. But sitting here and talking is soooooo much better."

Murtagh grunted incommunicably but if Adelina was phased it didn't show as she plugged right along. "I don't know about you but this is not the finest feast I've been too by far. Now if my father had been allowed to plan the event then…" On and on she went. Murtagh wondered how much trouble he would be in if he used magic to silence her. Likely quite a bit.

As she talked her blonde curls bounced up and down wildly. He might have found her beautiful with her blue eyes and rosebud mouth had it not all seemed so artificial. She was so pressed and powered and looked uncomfortable in her crisp salmon gown. Still she was likely to get her way before the night was out. No doubt he would eventually give in to her incessant chatter and she would accompany him back to his private chambers. There he would, drunken as possible, use her until he hoped he no longer remembered his troubles. It was just the way these things usually.

Murtagh sighed and scanned the crowd. Some people were dancing but most milled about talking and eating off the little trays servants carried around. While Adelina talked he watched a couple twirl its way around. The woman kept tripping over her partner's feet, but the man didn't appear to mind. He was too busy leering at the other dancers.

"Of course, it's not as though _I _had any complaints." Adelina was still talking.

Grimacing Murtagh looked down at the contents of his goblet only to receive a nasty shock. The contents were clear. Water. Clang! He cast the cup down upon the table. Adelina gasped then turned to glare at him reproachfully.

"Bastard." Murtagh whispered. He didn't need to ask to know that this was Galbatorix' work. He stood from the table, shoving his chair back with so much force that it nearly toppled backwards.

"Where are you going my lord?"

"To get some air."

"But—"

He didn't wait for her to finish.

* * *

Rhind picked her way through the crowd. Around her ladies skirts swirled, great clouds of silk and taffeta. The room was full of smoke. It stung at her eyes and throat. Bawdy laughter and polite conversation mixed into pleasant white noise. From one corner a troupe of musicians added a lively tune to the sounds of mirth.

Only a few courtiers looked up as she passed by, too involved in their own gossip and merry making to notice. To them she would look like just another silly girl, the daughter perhaps of an unimportant noble, not worth their time to bother with. And she was content with that, she was not here to be noticed anyways.

At length she managed to break free into an area of the room relatively devoid of people. She glanced up at the high table. Most of the seats were empty, their occupants having gone to join the celebrations. It was there that the King sat in a grand throne like chair, looking resplendent in robes of black embroidered with gold flames. He studied the partygoers critically fingertips pressed together as if in prayer. At his side a woman dressed in red and silver occasionally glancing over at the ruler beside her. Rhind knew that she must be one of the king's concubines, though she did not know the woman's name. The girl could not have been much older than herself, eighteen or nineteen at most, and she looked nervous and wary. Rhind almost pitied her. Almost.

It was hard to pity someone whose life must have been so easy. Fine dresses, priceless jewels, and attending fabulous parties were hardly something to complain about.

Several empty seats away from the king a man dressed in fine red velvet glared around the room. His dark hair hung down into his eyes, framing a face that was younger than she had expected. In one hand he held a goblet. This was Murtagh, she knew, son of Morzan the dragon knight. There had been many whispers about him as of late, and whispers were after all Rhind's specialty. Some said that he had been in alliance with the Varden but that the king had captured him, other said he had been a spy all along and had only just returned. Whatever the gossips said however, one thing was agreed upon. Morzan's spawn had a nasty temper that was matched only by that of his dragon. He was currently being entertained by Lady Beauson, and looking none too happy about it. She didn't see why. It was common knowledge that Lady Adelina was one of the most beautiful women at court, and one of the richest too. But then the affections of men were strange things.

Looking around Rhind plucked a goblet of wine off a serving table. It was heavy, wrought of gold into which the sigil of the empire had been wrought in a rubies. It was a bit too opulent and gaudy for her tastes, however, she pressed the metal to her lips none the less.

"Lady Rhind!" She turned to see General Harte swaggering towards her. He was a stout man with a great mustache and arms that might have been as wide around as Rhind's whole body. A doublet of heavily emerald brocade covered a slightly bulging belly.

She sunk into a light curtsy, "General."

Harte kissed her sloppily on the hand, the whiskers of his mustache tickling the skin. "Didn't think I'd see you here."

"Nor I you." Rhind smiled icily. She was well acquainted with the general, a loud man with a big head and even bigger sense of entitlement. She had first met him at an event much like this and had disliked him ever since. "Indeed, I must admit I thought you would be in Gilead. I hear the army is being mustered there."

"Yes. Yes." He bobbed his head eagerly, "Probably head out before the week ends."

"You think it will lead to all-out war?" Despite her dislike for the general she could not keep the curiosity out of her voice. Most of her life had been lived in Urubane and to her the Varden were nothing more than monsters mothers used to frighten wayward children.

Harte himself laughed, "It's already a bloody war. Those damned rebels just won't leave well enough alone eh?"

"I suppose not."

"Well that's what happens when you give power to peasants. Sooner or later every Tom Dick and Harry thinks he can rule better than the next man. But never mind all that. We're here to celebrate. Get in a last carousing before I have to head back to that dung heap of a camp."

"To the empire then." Rhind raised her glass.

"The empire!" Harte roared, a much louder echo. When he had drunk he turned back to her face flushed, "But now I've got a proposition for you."

"Indeed?" She raised one eyebrow, voice skeptical.

The general's eyes were greedy as they examined the young woman and Rhind felt a prickle of unease. "I've hear more than a few stories bout you. Us noblemen might not be as bad as women but word gets round. If you're as good as they say you are I'd be willing to pay double of whatever Lord Drayton gave you."

Rhind felt her face redden in anger. "I am not a whore, general. I am not for sale, and even if I was you could not afford it." She turned to leave but one of his hands snaked out, holding her wrist in a vicelike grip. He pulled her forward so that she was forced to look up into his beady eyes. His breath stank of sour wine and Rhind fought the urge not to gag.

"You forget your place. I should make you pay for your insolence."

She was just raising her left hand to place a well-deserved slap across his face when someone spoke.

"General Harte, if you still value your hands I suggest you let the lady go." Harte let go of her at once, so quickly in fact that she stumbled backward. Turning she saw a young man dressed in red, his face a permanent scowl. It was Lord Murtagh.

Harte was stuttering now, his face a nasty shade of purple. The rider cut across his blubbering with a swipe of his hand.

"You have many duties General. I suggest you go attend to some of them." The threat was clear in Lord Murtagh's voice.

After General Harte departed with many a bow and an apology and Rhind turned to Murtagh with a curtsy. "I suppose I should thank you for rescuing me."

Murtagh studied the girl. She looked slightly familiar, dressed in a plain muslin gown of bright blue. Her dark hair had been pulled loosely up into a bun and her eyes glinted in the lantern light

He shrugged noncommittally. "Harte's is a pig."

"Then I thank you all the more. I would hate to have spent my night with that."

He was slightly taken aback. She spoke much more forthrightly than he'd expected. Usually women of her class danced around such topics with backwards phrases and elusive smiles.

She smiled, showing slightly crooked teeth and held out her hand to him, "My name is Rhind by the way."

He took it, her skin was smooth and warm. "I assume you already know who I am, and now you're going to ask if I'm enjoying the celebration."

"No actually, I wasn't. You seemed plenty miserable without me asking stupid questions."

"And what would you know of misery?"

"Nothing, I just happen to be perceptive."

"Is that so?" He raised an eyebrow critically and she flashed him another brilliant smile. He realized then with a start just how alive she was. Not alive in the sense of breathing and a heartbeat, all living things had that. No, she was _alive, _practically radiating energy. He could not imagine how it would feel to be as free as her.

"I—if I may be so blunt my lord, why is it that you intervened? I had the situation in hand. And, forgive my saying so, but you are not renowned for your kindness."

Despite his black mood that remark brought a little smile to his lips, "You may be right about that, but just because I am not kind does not mean I enjoy watching others fall prey to that pig of a man. Besides, you interest me Lady Rhind."

It was her turn now to raise a brow, "I am not quite sure what you intend by that my lord."

"I am quite sure you do."

"Perhaps," She toyed with a strand of copper hair that had fallen free of her bun, "Though I cannot imagine what it is you desire in me."

She had a fair point. She was not so beautiful as many of those present. And with his new rank as dragon rider no doubt he could have a lady far fairer than she. But there was little enjoyment in that for him and he admired her boldness.

"Let's just say you are not the average." He kept his face and voice impassive, "However, I would not—especially after what just occurred—presume to force you into anything against your will. So I will ask, if I requested you to accompany me back to my chambers what would your response be?"

"Well…if you were to make such a request of me, then I _presume_ I would be obligated to accept."

* * *

She followed him down the hallway. As they walked the shadows seemed to grow in depth and length as the candles upon the walls grew less and less frequent. There was a time when she might have been frightened, but the dark had long since lost its hold on her. The sounds of the party had long since faded into the distance, and in the silence Rhind could hear her own breath as well as the click clack of her shoes on the stones.

It was cold in this wing of the palace, mostly uninhabited, the hearths left untended. Both of their breaths rose in white mists that hung heavy in the air. Rhind ought to have been cold, but right now heat flowed through her, as though all her blood had been set to boil over a fire.

She was not sure what it was but something about the young dragon knight that made her heart race. She knew she ought to be afraid of him. Indeed she was, but even as she feared him she was curious. Perhaps it was how the entire world seemed beneath him, or that he never smiled. Indeed, she had not business talking to him in the first place, her orders had been to watch and watch only, but she had teased him. She had tempted fate.

When they reached the door to Murtagh's chambers he uttered a single word and the door flew open, the lock shattered. Her knowledge of magic was limited, but she knew that there were at least a dozen other words he might have uttered, with less damage.

Inside, the room was dark, smelling faintly of musk and something else she could not quite identify. It was not a bad scent.

"Brisingr." A few candles and the fire burst to life, engulfing the room in an orange glow. The interior was luxurious. She had expected nothing less from a dragon rider. The windows were hung with rich velvet drapes, and the walls lined with books shelves. A plush couch and several chairs stood by the fire. Everywhere were the colors red and gold. Another door on the room's far end led to what must be a bed chamber.

She had half expected Murtagh to leap upon her as soon as they were across the threshold, but instead he went to a small table in the corner he poured two goblets of wine from a silver decanter.

"Would you like some?"

"Y—yes." Her throat was suddenly very dry and she took the cup from him, thankful as the cool liquid tickled her throat.

When she looked up she found Murtagh's eyes fixed upon her. They seemed to glow in the firelight and held a sort of hunger. The heat that she had felt in the hallway came rushing suddenly back, and her muslin dress felt far too constricting and heavy.

Carefully she placed the goblet back upon the table, and Murtagh stepped forward. Up close the hungry light was more akin to ravenous. His fingertips brushed against the flush of her cheek, before nestling in her hair. With a sharp tug her head was drawn to one side and the rider planted kisses down her exposed neck. He was forceful, urgent, and she had no doubt that she would bruise.

"You know," Rhind whispered rather breathlessly, "when I imagined this night, this was certainly not what I'd intended."

When he spoke his voice was low, "Whatever your intentions were I'm sure they were far from innocent."

She smiled then, the fire glowing in her eyes, "Indeed my lord? You would do well not to question the intentions of a lady." Even as she said it she brushed back the fabric of her dress, baring her shoulders, and allowed the garment to fall with a muffled flump to the floor. She stood before him in nothing but her corset and thin chemise.

"And you would do well not to tease me." With that he recaptured her in his arms, holding her against him with no chance of escape. He could hear the air go out of her lungs with a little whoosh and then as he began to plant kisses down the exposed skin of her neck a small moan escaped from her lips.

Murtagh smiled inwardly as she yielded to his touch. Frantically her fingers scrabbled at the buttons of his doublet until it fell away. Soon his undershirt followed, adding to the increasing pile of garments upon the floor.

Her hands strayed lower and he was acutely aware of the tightness in his breaches. He was not sure how they managed to make it to the bed chamber but the next thing he knew he was on top of her upon the red satin sheets of his bed.

Even as she traced her lips and tongue across his exposed chest he tore at her gown. The thin white fabric shredded under his grip, but the corset held much to his dismay. He fumble futilely with the laces for a moment before Rhind looked up.

She smiled to see his distress, slight as it was. Despite whatever unnatural powers the Dragon Knight possessed he was still a mortal man. Vaguely she wondered how angered he would be to be known as the man who was bested by a simple corset.

But then a little growl escaped his throat and she could see that if she did not remove it he would try once more by force. Sitting up Rhind reached back and deftly undid the lacing. Then with trembling fingers slid the corset and remnants of her chemise away, so that she was completely naked before him.

Murtagh studied the girl sitting in front of him. The light of the candles played across her skin, making the shadows dance and swirl. Her hair was a tumble of dark curls, much tangled from when he had grabbed her by it earlier. She was beautiful he thought. Not in the way most men might consider, but there was a wild beauty to her, a feralness that filled him with desire.

And Rhind too thought the rider beautiful, though in a darker way. So that as she watched him strip off his pants she could almost imagine she was dancing upon the cliff edge of her own destruction. All dark he was, and even as he was in the fits of passion she could see the cruelness and anger that never really seemed to leave his countenance.

"Do you approve my lord?" She asked sweetly, brushing the tip of one finger across his stomach, to the place were little hairs marked a trail down from his stomach.

Murtagh did not need to answer with words instead let out a moan and flipped her, so that she was pinned squarely beneath him. He wanted her so badly. No. He needed her.

Lifting her head off the pillows she pressed her lips to his ear. "Take me."

He could not wait any longer, it was as if those words had triggered in him a raging animal. Bracing one hand upon the head board he thrust deep within her. Rhind gasped, as he set his rhythm. Her nails scratched wildly at his back, but if they drew blood the young rider was heedless.

As he went harder he lifted her small form up onto him, dipping one hand between her thighs. Rhind moaned, fingers knotted almost painfully tight in his hair. Her head was thrown back, and her back arched under his hands. It was as though the blood in her veins had turned to fire, he could feel it through the paper-thin layer of her skin.

She called out and he realized how close she was to his end. Almost teasingly he withdrew his fingers tracing them up the exposed skin of her stomach. Rhind let out a frustrated whine as she came spinning suddenly back to reality. Above her the rider's lips had pated in a self-satisfied smirk.

"Beg." His voice was husky and raw, the need and anger mixed equally, "Beg for me to finish you. Or I'll leave you as you are." He was not one to hold such a threat, close to his own end as he was, but he let the words hang heavy. He growled then driving forward so hard that she yelped in pain. "Beg Rhind."

She was drowning in him she thought, his scent, his taste. All of it was overwhelming her. As if of its own will her mouth moved voicing the very pleas he demanded.

"Please."

"Louder."

"Please. End it! Please Murtagh!"

He was satisfied for even as she called out he brought his fingers back to her and she was lost. Already unbearably tight she contracted around him so that Murtagh felt as though the air had temporarily left his lungs. Rhind's body and mind had already gone, dancing away on the wave of pleasure when he finally found his release, gripping so tight to her that his fingers left marks.

She lay as she was, surrounded by a haze of heady satisfaction. The window was open she realized, a servant must have left it open earlier in the day, or maybe Murtagh had. Through it a little gust blew and Rhind felt goose bumps rise on her exposed flesh. The silken sheets were warm beneath them, comforting against the sudden chill.

Beside her she could hear Murtagh shift, his breaths tickled her neck, heavy and uneven. Her fingers strayed aimlessly across his skin, pale as spiders to his tanned muscles. She traced patterns, like half remembered stories and he shivered were she touched him. This man she had feared, both for his strength and ferocity, suddenly seemed vulnerable. His eyes lidded with sleep, dark hair tangled, and cheeks flushed, he was not the same monster she had followed from the party. He was just a child, as she was herself.

Even as she sunk into the embrace of dreams she heard, as if from a long way away, her own voice, just a whisper. "Sleep rider."

Murtagh slept.

**A/N: wow so that was my first attempt at a lemon, like ever… which was way more daunting to write than it should have been but hopefully it went okay. Thanks for reading :) reviews are appreciated. **


	2. Progression

**Alrighty, so originally this was just a one shot but I received some absolutely wonderful reviews, many of which expressed desire to see this as a full length story. I will admit I did initially toy with the idea of making this a longer story but then I assumed there would not be enough interest in it. How wrong I was! I will happily extend this past a one shot if everyone is interested. I will say right now that I cannot promise weekly updates (these chapters are long and require a lot of editing, not to mention I'm currently on an exchange program in Peru), however, I will do my best to stay on top of everything. Not every chapter will contain Lemons (this one does not), some will but only where the plot allows for it.**

**Anyways thank you for all the lovely reviews, please enjoy.**

Chapter 2: Progression

The pale grey light of morning streamed through the open window, illuminating the room in splashes of brilliance. Rhind pushed herself up, the soft mattress yielding under her hands, and surveyed the room. Clothes littered the floor. Murtagh's shirt lay in a heap in the doorway, and nearer to the bed the tattered remains of her own undergarments were scattered about. It would be no use trying to wear those, as she feared they were ruined beyond repair. Instead untangling herself from the sheets she went to the large dresser, thankful the well-oiled hinges did not squeak. She had no desire to wake Lord Murtagh. Inside his garments were folded neatly, tunics, breaches, and jerkins.

She may have both respect and feared the rider, but neither of those emotions stopped her from selecting a long tunic and pair of simple black breaches from among his other belongings. She doubted that he would miss them and did not much fancy walking all the way back to her chambers in nothing but her skin.

When she was dressed she turned back to look at Lord Murtagh. He was still asleep, dark hair tousled about his face.

"Farewell my lord." Her voice was hushed lest she wake him. Rhind doubted that they would meet again, or if they did it would be in the constricting formalities of a court event. Theirs was an agreement of a night, nothing more.

Out in the main chambers a servant had laid a silver platter of fruit and bread upon the low table. As she passed Rhind plucked an apple from the dish. Someone had gone to the trouble of shining it so that the green and red skin reflected almost like a mirror.

Then quietly as she could she drew open the door and stepped out in the hall. It _was_ a long walk back to her chambers. Lord Murtagh lived in the inner part of the citadel, near to royal apartments, but Rhind's own rooms were located near to the wash room, where the maids and servants cleaned their master's garments. On her way she passed a good many people, servants mostly, as the lords and ladies were not yet up after their night of carousing. Few noticed her, however. Bustling back and forth they were far to busy to bother a young woman in breaches.

Rhind did not go directly to her chambers, instead she turned aside and entered first into the baths. They were the servant's baths, not fancy but nothing she could complain about. There she scrubbed Murtagh's scent from her limbs with scalding water. Hot water always made her feel fresh and invigorated. Then dressed again she retraced her steps to the little wooden door, and pushing it open entered into her own chambers.

They were much smaller than the rider's, with hardly enough room for a small table and chair. Her bed was crammed into one corner, the linens a tumbled mess.

Stripping out of Lord Murtagh's garments she pulled a slightly crumpled dress from the bottom of her chest. The color of it had faded so that it was no longer a rich plumb but instead toned more like watered wine, and the cut was many years out of fashion. Even so Rhind remembered how beautiful her mother had looked in the dress, when she used to wear her rubies. She would not have worn it all but her other suitable dress, the blue one was currently crumpled on the floor of Lord Murtagh's receiving room and she had no mind to retrieve it.

She was just fixing her hair, still slightly damp from the baths, into a low bun when the summons came. Nothing more than a gentle brush against her mind but it was enough to send her racing, slipping on her brown leather shoes before darting out the door. She had expected that she would be called upon today and even as she ran thought desperately what she would report of the previous night.

There was no hiding anything from the king.

Past aged tapestries and cold fire places her flight took her back towards the heart of the palace, where she had been only hours before. But this time, instead of turning off into the little hallway with its thick paned windows she continued straight, up a flight of stairs before reaching a long hall, the walls of which were illuminated by guttering candles.

Here she slowed her pace. It was not wise to keep King Galbatorix waiting, but nor did she want the men that stood guard to see her racing about like a child. But her fears proved groundless, the two men guarding the doors to the kings private chambers did not even spare her a second glance, instead just ushered her in before shutting the doors with a great creak.

_I miss Hargand._ She thought gloomily. Hargand, the man who had previously guarded the king's chambers had always had time to banter and pass humorous jokes her way. But King Galbatorix had found out about the secret family he was keeping the lower sections of the city. She had not seen Hargand since.

On the other side of the door was a long room, black velveteen curtains masking the light of the windows and trapping in the heat so that the air sweltered. Along both walls hung massive paintings in heavy golden frames. Most were of the king and his black dragon slaughtering his enemies: elves, dwarves, humans and the occasional dragon painted in such a way that they appeared grotesque and hideous to look upon. In comparison the King was always painted handsomely, and each scale of Shrukian's hide had been made to shine. She wondered if the dragon was really so huge as he had been drawn.

However on the farthest wall was a painting larger than the others, its frame simpler than the others. It depicted two dragons against a smoke stained sky. One was black, the other pure white. Upon their back two men, one the King, the other an elf—not grotesque indeed he was painted with such skill that he almost appeared beautiful—thrust at each other with swords. She often wondered what the inspiration for the piece had been. Whatever it was looking at it always made her uneasy.

To one side of the enormous canvas a black paneled door was slightly ajar. Dim light spilled through it. As quietly as she could she brushed through it and entered into the room beyond.

King Galbatorix sat at a long mahogany table, around him piled many ancient books and scrolls. His beady eyes scanned the pages with a fevered pace.

"You're late." He did not even look up as she entered.

"My apologies your highness," She sunk into her deepest curtsy, "I came as fast as I could."

"Sit."

It was minutes before he looked up and pushed the book aside. Up close he looked tired, with circles under his eyes, but then that might just be a trick of the low light.

"Open your mind Rhind." She did as she was instructed, lowering the weak barriers that guarded her thoughts. A probe, cold as ice and hard as steel entered her mind and Rhind gasped. No matter how many times he did it she would never become accustomed to the feeling of the Kings mind. Slowly as first then faster the events of the last few days began to flick before her eyes, trailing a group of ladies and gentlemen around the gardens, listening to the maids chatter in the laundry room, the whisperings of the nobles at the feast. As the King reached the memories of the previous night Rhind felt the heat of shame burning her face.

When he was done the King pressed his fingers together even as he had at the feast, deep in thought. Rhind sagged against the table breathing heavily, a dull ache beginning to throb in her head.

At length Galbatorix looked up. "I see you have had no more nightmares in the past few weeks."

"No you highness." She felt some of the heat leave her cheeks. King Galbatorix was always so kind to her, always inquiring as to her health.

"Hmmm. Good." His black eyes were alight with cunning. "After I have dismissed you from my presence I would like you to go seek out Darus. He will teach you a spell for infertility as well as give you a list of healing spells to memorize. Then go see to it that your things are packed, I will also send a maid with some garments more suited to your impending travels."

Rhind's eyebrows met in confusion. "Am I going somewhere your highness?"

"Tomorrow morning you will depart for Gilead along with the commanders that are currently stationed here."

"I do not understand. Isn't my place here?"

"Until this morning it was, but now I have decided that you are better suited to accompany the army."

Her eyes stung as she averted them from his piercing gaze. "How is it I have displeased you my king?"

"You have not," She looked up to see that he wore a kind, if slightly sharp smile. "As immense as my power is I cannot be everywhere. I have always needed little birds like you Rhind, to be my eyes where I cannot see. However, that in and of its self does not make you noteworthy. I could easily have you replaced by a smarter mind or a prettier face. Until last night you were invaluable to me. Your actions have demanded I take a closer look into your fate."

"I am so sorry your highness, I did not mean to—"

"Do not be sorry stupid girl. If anything be grateful that I am giving you this opportunity to prove yourself." He waved a hand and one of the scrolls on the table disappeared. "You will be accompanying the members of the Black Hand to Gilead. There you will serve as a healer for the army. I trust that your rudimentary skills with magic will be enough to make yourself useful. Now," He stood, "you are dismissed. I trust you will do as I have instructed you."

"Yes my king." She curtsied low and then fled from the room, tears threatening to blur her vision. _Stupid dragon rider! Stupid party! _Her life had just begun to obtain a semblance of normality. Now everything was ruined.

* * *

When Murtagh woke Rhind was gone. The bed where she had lain was cold, no trace of her body heat remaining. He had not expected her to stay. Grumbling he sat up and stretched, the cool air form the window pleasant upon his skin.

_I take it someone had a good night._ Thorn's thoughts reverberated in his mind.

_Shut up._ Murtagh stood, tearing the twisted sheet away from his body, and went to the dresser.

_Well aren't you in a good mood?_ Thorn's tone was sarcastic but Murtagh could sense the amusement that colored the dragon's thoughts.

He frowned. His plain tunic was nowhere to be seen. One of the maids must have left them in the wash room by mistake. Instead he selected a deep crimson tunic, edged in black and matching black breaches. Then he washed his face with water from a silver bowl set on a low side table. No doubt it had been hot, but in the hours since it had been set out the water had turned tepid. Judging by the position of the sun outside the window it was a little before noon. He was surprised that he had been allowed to oversleep. Usually the King had him up by now with some infernal practice or other.

_Maybe Galbatorix has finally found something better to do then tormenting us._

Thorn snorted, _Or maybe he has already learned of last night's escapade and has no need to question you about it._

_ You act as though he would care. _ Murtagh stopped in front of a polished mirror on the wall and with his finger combed his dark hair out of his eyes.

_ You forget young one, your mind is not only your own. _Thorn was right, Galbatorix could sweep through both of their thoughts as he pleased. No secret was safe. Even so Murtagh was confident in his abilities to think he would know if the King was reading his thoughts.

_Hmmm. Can I visit you today?_

_ You can, so long as you don't have to train. _Murtagh hoped he wouldn't.

Out in the receiving room a maid was sweeping the chimney with a small silver handled broom. When she saw him she dropped it with a loud clang.

"M-m'lord! I-I did not know you were still here!" She turned to flee.

"Stop." Murtagh knelt and lazily picked up Rhind's blue dress from where it still lay. The maid turned positively shaking in terror. "Have this washed then return it to the Lady Rhind."

"O-o'course m'lord." She fled.

When she was gone he went to a silver platter that had been set upon the table. As he bit into the pear he realized with a start that this was the first actual food he'd consumed in days. Not eating had been his own small way of revolting against the king, instead surviving on the energy forced to him by the maddened eldunarí. For a moment he considered tossing the pear aside but his mouth watered and he decided he was far too hungry to pass it up.

Glancing around the room he saw that the nameless servants had removed the wine and cups from the previous night. Everything was neat and in order, the books on magic he was supposed to be reading had been stacked on the low coffee table. In truth, that was one thing about his training as a rider that try as he might he could not despise. As much as he hated Galbatorix—the exact amount changing on a day to day basis—he could not complain of the extensive magical education he had received. There was a simple pleasure to watching the world bend to your will, unmaking that which was displeasing. In those aged pages were secrets that had been lost since the days of the riders, secrets only he and the king knew.

Galbatorix, he knew, would be displeased if he did not learn the spells he had been assigned to memorize, however, he wanted to visit Thorn. So on his way out he snatched one musty volume from the top of the pile. The cover was black leather, cracked and aged. The blue letters that once spelled out the name had almost faded from existence, completely unreadable.

It was a short walk to the chambers where Thorn dwelt. Down three sets of cold marble stairs, halfway down a cavernous hallway he halted at a large door that two dragons could easily have fit though side by side. It would have been foolish to try and open it by hand, so instead he placed his palm upon the door as he had a thousand times before and muttered a word in the ancient language.

It creaked open on aged hinges to reveal a hall so large that the ceiling was lost in shadows. Outside in the hall the air had been cold enough that Murtagh's breath had risen in a vapor, but in here a sort of warmth pervaded. Upon a raised slab of stone in the center of the room a great red dragon lay curled upon a padded cushion.

Murtagh caught his breath. As if overnight Thorn had grown several feet in length, his body more chorded and muscled than it had been before. Despite his impressive appearance his scaled appeared to shine more dimly than usual, and when he opened one vermilion eye to gaze at Murtagh its light was dull.

_Thorn. _He put a hand upon the dragon's flank and felt his body heat burning through his scaled hide.

_Good morning young one. I wondered if you would ever get here. _Thorn's tone was amused as it had been before, but now Murtagh could sense the exhaustion that colored his thoughts.

Rage flashed through Murtagh, dark and potent._ What has he done to you?!_

Thorn blinked, _Do not worry partner of my mind, I am fine. However, even with the assistance of the Eldunarí the spells required to grow my body were more exhausting than anticipated. _

He relaxed and settled down beside the slab, the book propped open on his knees. _How do you feel?_

_ Strange, as though my body is not my own. I can do things I could not before. _As if to demonstrate this point Thorn snorted and a gout of flames, ten feet long flew from his nostrils.

Murtagh scrambled backwards so as to avoid getting charred. _You can breathe fire?_

_ Yes._ The dragon opened his mouth in what might have been a toothy grin and Murtagh could sense his pride, _Though it will take some getting used to. It would be a shame if I accidently roasted somebody important. _

They spent the rest of the morning in such a manner. Sometimes they would talk but more often than not they lapsed into comfortable silence, enjoying the companionship. Not until Thorn hatched had Murtagh ever truly imagined what it would be like to share one's mind so completely, indeed he had always kept his mind secret and secluded. But being with Thorn was like being free, though both were in fact far from freedom. As time passed he propped open the book on his knees and read about all the interesting, twisted, and sometimes downright despicable uses of magic. Occasionally Thorn would chime in to inquire after a word's meaning but for the most part he dosed in semi-consciousness.

It was well past noon when their peace was interrupted. A mental probe of unimaginable strength jabbed into their minds, shattering Murtagh's mental wards. Thorn hissed in surprise and Murtagh gritted his teeth in pain. But neither of them sought to keep the presence out, they knew better.

_Come. _The single word echoed in Murtagh's mind before the presence retreated. Once it was gone Murtagh quickly threw up his wards again, hating the feeling of exposure.

_You had better hurry, the king does not like to be kept waiting._

_ I suppose so. _He shut the book with an audible snap and stood.

_Will you visit tomorrow?_

_ I'll try. _Out in the hall Murtagh shivered. He had become accustomed to the warmth of Thorn's body. He started off down the hall at a leisurely pace, not caring if he was late.

The King's chambers were near his own, located in the royal wing of the sprawling black fortress. Candles guttered on the walls and the two guards at the door nodded respectfully before pulling the thick black door outward.

He passed without comment through the gallery where so many portraits hung. He had seen it to many times to be awed by the artists' skill. Beyond in a long dining chamber the mahogany table was set with a noon meal. Galbatorix sat at one end of the table. Despite the food, many books also littered the table's surface around him. The king looked up as he entered.

"Your highness." Murtagh gave a stiff bow.

Galbatorix swirled a goblet in one hand, "Next time I summon you I presume you will not think to keep me waiting."

"No sir."

"Sit." He gestured to where a second place had been set, "We have much to discuss."

Murtagh sat. He was not much hungry but it would have been rude to refuse the meal, and the King had never taken kindly to rudeness. As he ate Galbatorix began to speak.

He began with the destruction of the riders, old and corrupt as they had been. Murtagh had heard all of this before but no matter how hard he tried to ignore the King's words he could not. Galbatorix's voice was rich and seductive, weaving masterful tapestries of words that ensnared the listener. He spoke of the grandeur of the empire, the coming return of dragons, and of the Varden who sought to extinguish this wondrous future. As much as he deplored Galbatorix, Murtagh could not help but finding himself agreeing with much the king said. He longed to be part of the future that was painted before his eyes, a future where the land was ruled under the benevolence of a new order of Dragon Riders. As Galbatorix spoke Murtagh slipped further and further into the dream until at last the King stopped talking and the spell was broken.

"And what," Murtagh asked, his own voice rough and uncouth after the King's, "is my part in all of this?"

"Why," Galbatorix spread his hands, black eyes glittering, "You shall serve as my commander. The army will be marching south soon and I need someone to Marshall them at Gilead."

"Gilead?" He remembered his last trip to the city, it had not been exactly pleasant.

"Indeed. Tomorrow morning many members of the Black Hand will be departing Urubane as well as the commanders currently stationed here. However, as you will fly I do not think you needs depart until the week after next at latest. There is still much to do before you are ready."

"And what will I be doing in Gilead?"

Galbatorix looked down at a map perched precariously on top of a thick volume. "You will be taking the army south to Surda. The Varden have emerged from their mountains and together with that foolish king Orin think to challenge us." As smooth as his voice had been moments before it suddenly became steely with an undercurrent of anger. Anger, Murtagh knew, that could turn quickly to rage.

"And you want me to lead the army?"

"You will have many commanders and the Twins to counsel you." Murtagh fought back his distaste. He hated the twins for the pain they had inflicted upon him during the long journey from Farthen Dur. "However, before you leave there is still much that I must teach you, spells for binding and breaking. Thorn as well must be even larger if he plans to contend with Saphira."

"And when will we start this…training?"

"I thought we would begin with some new oaths, to insure you carry out my mission as I intend." Murtagh shut his eyes as the great mental probe once more tore into his being.

**A/N: Probably not the most eventful chapter ever but I'm just getting the ball rolling. Let me know what you think **


	3. A Taste of Freedom

**Ah chapter three! I actually managed to get this out in relatively good time (considering that the length of these chapters is actually longer than I would usually write) so I hope that it bodes well for my update speed. Again I thank all of you who took time to review, your reviews are really what keep me going (that and rabid plot bunnies). Please enjoy and if you like it (or don't like it) don't be afraid to let me know.**

** Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance Cycle and if I did it probably wouldn't have ended the way it did.**

Chapter 3: A taste of Freedom

Murtagh ached. Physically and mentally he was exhausted from his training with the king. It had he supposed been worth it but now all he wanted was to sleep. But when he fell sprawled upon his mattress it alluded him. His mind was too full of all the things he had learned in the last weeks to shut down.

He cursed and pushed himself up with his hands. Thorn was still away, training with Shruikan and they had passed from the boundaries of Murtagh and his' mental link. Instead he went from the bed chamber and busied himself sharpening his sword. He could have easily done it with magic but there was a simple pleasure to caring for the gleaming metal himself. His hand and a half word had been with him many years, a gift from his old sword master Tornac on his fifteenth name day.

The king had offered him swords from his vast collection of riders' blades but Murtagh had refused them all. Of all the riders' blades there was only felt that there was his to wield: his father's. But even that ill-fated weapon was not in his hands. Nor was he sure that he wanted the traitors weapon that had marked him as only a child. It would only further solidify the fear that he was becoming akin to his father.

But it did anger him that is was Eragon who wielded the blade. By all the laws of inheritance Zar'roc was Murtagh's and should have passed to him upon Morzan's death. Likely it would have if Brom had not stolen it. And now it was Morzan's younger son rather than his elder who wielded his weapon. It was this fact more than anything that stirred in him the desire to claim this brutal memento of his childhood.

When the sword was satisfactory he sheathed it once more and lay it upon the low table in the main room. They would be leaving this evening, the king has informed him after they had finished his lesson in magic. Thorn and he would fly north to Gilead and from there accompany the army south to confront Surda and the Varden.

Which meant he ought to be preparing. With an aggravated groan he got back to his feet and laid out three sets of clothes upon the bed, along with his armor which had been delivered that morning. Brand new, the smiths had made it especially for him. It gleamed brightly and many intricate patterns had been engraved into the steel. Yet when it was donned it was incredibly lightweight and Murtagh knew it would serve him well. He left the belongings there, knowing, that the silent servants would pack them into Thorns saddle bags for him along with provisions for the flight. He would not take much with him. Burdening Thorn would slow his flight and if necessary he could always buy what he needed in Gilead. After that his belongings would be transported along with all the other army supplies in mule drawn wagons.

A presence brushed gently against his mind and after a quick moment to panic Murtagh realized it was Thorn returning from his own training.

_Well, how was it?_

It was a moment before the dragon responded, _Tiring but I think worth it. _He flashed Murtagh a mental image of some of the complex aerial maneuvers he had mastered as well as a technique that involved biting the base of another dragon's neck, immobilizing it instantly. _What did you do?_

Instead of taking the time to explain Murtagh merely showed the red dragon, engulfing him in his memories. Galbatorix had taught him a particularly complex spell that involved summoning a bolt of energy with which to smite his enemies as well as numerous other lesser spells that had the possibility to be useful in battle. He also informed Thorn of the King's orders that they were to fly at nightfall.

_Why not in the morning?_

_ Our presence is not well known throughout the empire and Galbatroix does not want word of us reaching the Varden through the mouths of spies. If we fly at nightfall then we shall be able to clear Urubaen and the surrounding area without being seen._

_ Very well, _Thorn snorted, _But if this is so then I will need to eat and to rest before we depart. _

Murtagh had not expected anything less. _ Rest then, but remember that the King will want to see us before we leave. _

_ Of course. _

After that quick exchanged Murtagh realized that if he and Thorn were going to spend three or more days flying he ought to bathe before they left. Murtagh's rooms contained their own bath chamber through a small door just off his bed chamber. He could have called a servant to prepare the bath for him but he wasn't in the mood to socialize however briefly with other people. Besides it wasn't anything he couldn't do for himself.

A quick bath and fresh change of clothes _did_ help. Coupled with a few words in the ancient language to ease his aches and he almost felt human again. By now the sun was dipping dangerously close to horizon and Murtagh realized with a sense of finality that it was almost time to go meet the king. He donned his leather jerkin and rich traveling cloak then collected his sword and shield.

_Thorn?_

_I come. _The dragon responded.

Out in the hall the shadows had grown long and everything was still except for one maid who was just exciting a room a few doors down a silver tray in hand. When she say Murtagh she squeaked and dropped the tray. It clattered on the stones, the echoes of which rang in his ears.

She fell into a deep curtsy with a whisper of 'm'lord' which he ignored, striding past without a second glance. His new boots clacked on the stone and the red and black of his cloak billowed out behind him, the fur lining making it heavy.

He met Thorn in the grand hallway that led to Galbatorix' throne room. So vast was the hall that two dragons the size of Shruikan could easily have walked abreast.

_It is time. _Thorn thought, and Murtagh could feel the dragon's blood boil as his thoughts turned to war and the death of his enemies. Thorn he knew, was ready to bathe in the blood of his foes and paint the sky with fire for all the wrongs that had befallen them. It was a sentiment Murtagh shared.

The hall ended with a set of enormous beautifully crafted golden door. Usually they remained closed, even on the hottest days of summer, but today they had been thrown open. The chamber beyond was lit dimly with glowing werelights that hovered midair.

At the room's far end Galbatoix sat upon his thrown, his heavy black cloak trailing over one side. It Murtagh knew had been cut from the wings of Belgabad the Great. Across his knees Vrangr glittered wickedly. Some days Shruikan would crouch behind the throne but today he was absent. Murtagh was glad, the dragon's madness made him unpredictable at best.

The King appeared deep in thought and did not look up until Murtagh and Thorn were nearly at the foot of the dais. Murtagh sunk into his lowest bow, and Thorn dipped his head so low that he nearly brushed the floor.

The King spread his arms, "Murtagh, Thorn my most valued servants. The time has come to prove your loyalty to me and this glorious empire." His tone was warm and inviting but there was steel behind it that left no room for argument.

"Yes your highness."

"From here I expect you to fly with all haste north to Gilead. The army is waiting there as are many members of the Black Hand. I will be putting you in control of them with the twins as your second in command."

At these words he felt his lips draw back in a savage grin. The twins had been none too kind in their treatment of him on the long trip from Farthen Dur to Urubaen. It would be his pleasure to give them a taste of their own medicine. Oh, he could not kill them—the empire needed their skill to win the war—but with his new magical prowess and high rank they would now be the ones at his mercy.

"You will take the army south to crush Surda," The King continued, "But remember I want the blue dragon and her rider alive at all costs. I expect you understand that the consequences will be dire if you do not comply with my orders." The threat was not idle nor unexpected.

"Yes sir."

"Very good, in that case there is one last oath that I would extract from the pair of you." Without warning the king began to speak in the ancient language. Murtagh felt himself stagger at the force of the words and beside him Thorn whined. As the King continued to speak Murtagh found himself gripped by the desire to either weep, run, or yell, as he always did when the king used their true names. There a horrible truth to seeing your identity lain out without illusion or falsities. Under the pressure of the Kings words and the binding magic of their true names they began to complete the oath, Murtagh with his voice and Thorn his thoughts. The exact complexities of the spell eluded him, new as he was to the ancient language, however, the gist of it was to that Murtagh would follow Galbatorix' orders while with the army and to insure they capture Eragon and Saphira when the two sets of dragon and rider finally met upon the field of battle.

When it was over Murtagh sagged against Thorn's flank. In his mind he was stripped and violated, it was an awful feeling.

"Now go." The Kings voice boomed.

Out in the hall once more, the golden doors shut fast servants issued from small tunnels to the left and right. With them they brought Thorn's molded leather saddle and his saddle bags. Timidly they strapped the saddle and it accoutrements to the dragon, wary of his fangs and teeth. Then Murtagh climbed atop and mounted Thorn, securing his legs with the straps and tying his sword and shield behind him.

_Are you ready?_

_ Yes. _Thorn growled and crouched, _Tonight we fly._

With that he bounded down the great hall and out the far doors, extending his vermilion wings so that they hung in the air. Then with a mighty flap that jarred the air he angled due north towards Gilead.

It did not matter that they were bound by their oaths or even their ancient names. Tonight they were free.

The wagon bounced up and down on the rough dirt track. Rhind's teeth chattered with every bump they encountered. The back flaps of the wagon had been drawn aside and through the gap she could see the lines of soldiers marching on into the distance. It was truly a marvel for she knew that of the imperial army this was but a fraction and that many thousands more awaited them in Gilead.

"You go to Gilead for the first time?"

She shifted to look back at Iltani, the only other female magician who had accompanied the army north.

"Yes, I have never been so far north before." She had never been so far from the capitol at all, but she didn't mention that, not wanting to seem unworldly to this other woman.

Iltani smiled. She was a striking woman, and curiosity to Rhind. Hailing from the tribes that inhabited the Hadarac dessert her skin was dark as night which she complimented by dressing in bright exotic colors. And in her voice she carried a heavy lilting accent that along with her strange speaking patterns belied the fact that she did not grow up using the common tongue. She was a gifted magic user—with skills that far exceeded Rhind's paltry abilities—but from the heavy scars at her wrists and ankles it was clear to see that her position had not always been so esteemed.

"Once you see what I have, fields and mud houses do not impress you."

"Then you have traveled much?"

Iltani sniffed, "I have seen mountains that touch the sky and sand like of bones. It goes forever."

Surely white sand was in the Hadarac Desert but Mountains that touched the sky? Surely such a thing was impossible. The great shelf of Urubaen seemed high enough to Rhind, she could not imagine anything so tall as to touch the clouds.

She tried to cover her ignorance, "My mother was from a northern village. She told me that some year's winter came and it never left and snow covered the world for months and months."

"I have not gone so far north," Iltani acknowledged begrudgingly, "Ice is no friend of me."

Rhind frowned. Despite what her mother had once told her she had never even seen snow before, though she hoped she might now.

Iltani peered out the back of the wagon at the rows of soldiers, their armor glinting in the noonday sun. "When this war ends I will be happy. Armies have no place for me."

"So you have ridden with an army before?"

She shook her head, golden earrings clanking. "No. No army so large ever was in my life. But I go with raid parties and battalions. It is not safe. Soldiers take what they want, I know."

"I see." Rhind tried not to think too deeply on the meaning of Iltani's words. She was here as a healer. Surely she would be safe right? She hoped so.

So far the trek from the capital had been arduous. Although she and Iltani mostly rode in the covered cart, dust still stung as their eyes, flies buzzed about, and the stench of a thousand men clogged their noses. At first she had not minded in the slightest. Never before had she seen the lands to the north and she spent long hours simply gazing at them as they passed by. Occasionally she would slip from the cart and walk alongside the oxen only to be forced to retire when her feet grew tired and bruised. Her body was not used to this way of life. However, day by day she improved. She could walk longer with the army, and where her skin at first burned now it had given way to a tan. She began to recognize some men by name and grew accustomed to their less refined mannerisms.

But despite her gradual adaptation it was still tedious and by the end of the second week even the unknown land had begun to bore her. It was much the same day to day and that did not quench her desire for change.

It did not help that many of the other healers and magic workers shunned her. Compared with them her own skills in both fields were far beneath their own and so they wanted little to do with her. It was for this reason above all others that Rhind still regarded this journey as some sort of punishment. Surely she was not here because of her skills. What then remained in the kings reasoning to send her along with a marching army? Had her transgressions at the feast and the night after truly caused all this or did the king have another motive?

Such questions went unanswered.

When the sun had reached midday the army halted so that the men could relive themselves and refill their water skins. The wagon wheels came to a halt with the screech of metal. First poking her head out of the back flap Rhind bit farewell to Iltari and clambered down from the wagon. Outside the chill air nipped at her exposed skin. She wished she's backed warmer clothes, in the three weeks they had been traveling the temperature had dropped steadily. She was she supposed apt to get her wish for snow sooner rather than later.

She stretched as her feet came into contact with the ground, glad to be free of the constriction of the cart.

"G'day Rhind." She turned to see Tristan watering the cart mules. An empire soldier he had been given the task of guarding the wagon. During the last weeks he had become a familiar sight to Rhind. His company was pleasant for of the soldiers he was decently mannered and never leered or else asked what her price was as did too many others.

Now, despite the cold his brow was drenched in sweat, which he mopped with the sleeve of his red tunic.

"Got tired of sittin in there and listenin to her preach?" He jabbed a finger in the general direction of the cart.

Rhind felt a smile twist her lips. He was not far off in his classification of Iltari. She was haughty and proud of her status, and treated the men around her as if they were below her. Rhind though this was a tad rich coming from a former slave. Then again given her own parentage she was not one to boast.

"You should hear about some of the places she's been though. She said there are mountains that touch the sky."

Tristan snorted dismissively, "Those are just old wives tales. No mountains could touch the sky."

As the army began to move again Rhind was forced to admit that he was probably right, it seemed too improbable and fantastical to be real.

"Do you know how many more days it is to Gilead?" She asked, stepping over a large pile of horse shit. Dust billowed around the hem of her dress, staining it no doubt permanently. The blisters on her feet ached and she wished that she had been more sensible in her choice of footwear. She had taken only the kind of rough leather shoes that she might have used to walk about the city. She had long since grown thoroughly envious of the men's well-made boots.

Tristan cast a critical eye at the army snaking away into the distance. "Four days at this rate, maybe three if the captains whip their men into shape."

"I am excited to see Gilead, I have never been before."

"It's nothing special, lots of barracks and lots of men."

Despite his words she was still anxious to arrive. Then she would see what awaited her in Gilead.

The Ramr River glittered far below in the cool sunlight. Wisps of cloud breezed past as Thorn winged his way north. Murtah's breath which rose in a thick whit mist was quickly snatched away and left to linger in their wake. Flying so high even his thick cloak was no protection from the wind and he had grown accustomed to the perpetual chill, and encased in their velvet gloved his fingers were numb.

But it was worth it. Even flying only at night for the first two days they had still made remarkable time and now they were a mere handful of leagues from Gilead. So far they had not seen the contingent of the army that had been sent north a few weeks ago, and Murtagh hoped that they had simply passed them over in the darkness. He wished to arrive before the generals and the Black Hand had the opportunity to run amuck of things.

_I do not understand why you long to return to the constant yammering of humans. Better to fly forever. _Thorn snorted a small jet of flames, evaporating a small cloud which had hung in their path.

On principle he agreed with Thorn. He would have happily continued on and forsook their responsibility, but Galbatorix' oaths bound them more tightly than chains. _I do because we must, and that the sooner that this war the better for the two. But it won't end if we shirk our responsibilities. _

_ Hmmmm. _

It was midday before Gilead came into view, a dark smudge on the horizon. As they drew nearer he could see the long low baric, the watchtowers, and beyond them the ugly sprawl of the city. Murtagh was reminded sharply of the last time he had come to this city. He had been with Eragon then and it had not gone smoothly.

As they began their decent Murtagh caught sight of the banners displayed upon the battlements. Among the numerous others he counted those of General Karst and Lord Walford. He cursed, so the army had beaten them after all, though by the look of the wagons still streaming into the city not by very much.

There were many shouts and exclamations as Thorn swooped low over the buildings. Some people even screamed as the dragon's enormous shadow temporarily blotted out the sun. Then Thorn alighted in the courtyard of the massive fort, located in the center of the city, and disappeared from the view of the citizens.

No sooner had Murtagh dismounted than did six men their armor, emblazoned with the twisting red flame of the empire rush up to them.

The lead man bowed, as did his companions, "Welcome to Gilead my lord, my name is Tristan and I and my companions will your guards while you are with the army."

Murtagh inclined his head briskly, then went about removing Thorns saddle. The dragons stretched and arched his back, glad to be free of the weight. The tips of his ruby scales lifted slightly so that seemed a wave of motion ran the length of his body. Many of the men tightened their grips on their weapons.

Then turning Murtagh set off at a brisk pace towards the door that led to the interior of the compound. The guards scrambled to follow. Behind them Thorn took off once more, on his way to hunt.

"Is there anything we can have brought you my lord? A hot meal? Fresh clothes?" Tristan asked.

"Summon the Generals, and inform the Twins that I wish to speak to them as well." It was time, Murtagh thought that he deal with the Black Hand.


	4. Terms and Conditions

**Hello everyone. I hope you enjoy this immensely long chapter (I seriously don't even know how that all happened). Also as a warning this chapter contains description of an amputation as well as a lemon (though if you read chapter 1 you're probably fine). Enjoy and let me know what you think.**

Chapter 3: Terms and Conditions

The air was clogged with the scent of sick and dying men. Blood, urine, and other bodily fluids of a less than savory nature mixed together so potently that it made one want to gag. Everywhere was the moaning of pain. Occasionally accompanied by an exclamation or curse when a healer would prod a wound, or more rarely a sigh of relief when a spell caster would agree to ease a man's suffering. The long low room was illuminated by candles, the windows and doors having been draped with long shrouds of linen, the better to keep out the flies.

_And this is only every day. _Rhind thought, _What will it be like after a battle?_

Absently she stirred the pot of boiling water, adding a few more strips of linen. This morning a company had come in from the south after a skirmish with a group of Varden soldiers. The empire men had won but not without receiving heavy injuries. Rhind had been boiling rags for bandages all day.

"Get here girl." Rhind looked up to see one of the healers, woman by the name of Maren beckoning to her. Setting aside the stir stick she gathered up her skirts and made her way between the cots careful of where she stepped. "Hurry, haven't got all day."

Maren was kneeling beside a man with sandy blonde hair, his brow was beaded with sweat and his eyes had about them a touch of fever. On the floor beside his cot his ragged empire livery had been folded neatly.

"Is he one of the new ones?"

"Aye." Maren mopped her brow, her dark hair coming out of its loose bun.

The man was bare chested, only a few small cuts and scratches marring his tanned skin. Rhind knit her eyebrows together, "What's wrong with him?"

Maren drew back a sheet that had been covering the man's legs and Rhind fought the urge to vomit. The man's left calve was swollen and disfigured. Pus leaked from a jagged tear that from the way it hung looked to go all the way to bone. The skin around the wound was blackened and it was clear to see that the rot had already set it. Rhind wondered how it had been allowed to reach this state, surely the company had a spell caster? Maren prodded the area with the tip of her index finger and the man swore and jerked violently.

"Get of me woman, I'm fine!" But he clearly wasn't, even Rhind could tell that. His leg was beyond hope recovery, except perhaps if complex magic was used. But there were few spell casters of such power among the healers and such a task was beneath the skill of the Black Hand.

"Hush." Maren told the soldier then turned to Rhind, "I'm going to have to remove it," Upon these words the man's eyes grew wider and he tried desperately to push himself up from the cot. "You know spells right girl?"

Rhind nodded uneasily.

"Can you ease his pain while I amputate? We could of course use milk of the poppy but it's not always as affective."

Rhind frowned searching through her memory to see if such words existed in her limited vocabulary of the ancient language. She toyed with the idea of combining the word for reduce with the traditional waíse heill, but decided against it. Such a spell would be too vaguely worded not to mention would likely prove to be beyond her weak abilities. No doubt she would be left too weak to move if not worse.

"No." She shook her head, "Do you want me to fetch Jarin? He might agree to—"

"No he'll be off with the others, some meeting in that red rider's tent. Fetch the poppy."

Rhind did as she was told collecting the small brown bottle from the chest in the corner where the other ointments and tonics were stored. Maren was busy readying her tools from a small kit by her side.

The man had long since began to cry out, pleading with Maren not take his leg. Now as Maren fetched her tools he turned his fevered eyes on Rhind.

"No please! I need my leg! Don't let her do it!"

"You'll die if she doesn't," Rhind fought her growing trepidation, "Here I have milk of the poppy. It will help ease the pain." The man did not calm down but he did allow her to give him the medicine. She administered only a few drops, heavily diluted as it was. It would not be enough to dull all the pain but they dare not use any more. Milk of the poppy was expensive and could not be wasted in copious amounts on any mere foot soldier.

With deft movement Maren fixed a wire wrapped with a strip of linen around the mans leg, just above the knee. Hopefully it would cut off blood flow and help to make the procedure less painful.

He was practically crying now, begging them not to take his leg, because he said he needed it. How would he be able to earn a living and provide for his family? How would he be able to fight? Rhind wished with all her heart that she could stop it, but then he would certainly die. The infection would spread and then his family would have no one.

Maren handed her a wooden dowel.

"No! Stop! You ca—" Man's protests were cut of as Rhid fit the piece of wood between his teeth. Despite not being able to speak his efforts to rise became even more fervent and Rhind had to push him back rather forcefully.

"Hold him," Maren pulled the first of her instruments from the box, apparently deciding that the leg had been tied off long enough.

She threw all of her weight upon the soldier, pinning his arm to his side and holding him firmly against the cot's rough blankets. She knew when it started because he let out a horrible cry—despite the dowel in his mouth—and struggled with renewed effort.

Rhind tried not to watch, she did not want the image in her mind, but her eyes were inexplicably drawn to the soldier's leg.

First with a wickedly curved knife Maren cut down to the bone, creating a clean slice just below his knee. Then she removed from the box a small saw that could only have one purpose.

As horrible as the image was it in no way compared to the noises the man was making. Clearly the poppy milk had not done its job and he moaned and screamed as Maren fitted the saw to the laceration. The soldier's body tensed and he shook as Maren. Rhind's own arms trembled with the effort of restraining him. And he screamed and screamed. Rhind hoped she would never have to hear such a sound again. Though likely she would before the month, nay, the week was out.

When it was done, Maren removed the now lifeless leg and folded a flap of skin that had been left over the stump. With expert skill she took a needle and silk thread and sewed the wound shut.

The worst was over and Rhind removed her weight from the soldier who lay there shaking. She did not wait to see Maren sterilize and wrap the wound, instead whipped her bloody hands on her apron and fled the low building.

Outside was clear cold day, the sounds of the army blocking out any noise from inside the healing rooms. Rhind leaned against the rough wall and sunk to the ground. She watched two mangy dogs fight over a crust of stale bread, her body shaking, breaths uneven.

She didn't belong here. The blood, the screams all served to make her want to run in the opposite direction. She was not strong like the other healers, couldn't do what they did. _I wasn't made for this._

The walls of the fortress dripped with water. Each drop beading and running down the seams between the great stones.

"I say we wait another month, give the recruits more time to train."

"What?" Lord Walford leaned forward outraged, "And let the Varden and Surda keep raiding the south?"

Lord Hamlin waved a hand dismissively, "Bah! Let the peasants raid the peasants I say."

Murtagh twirled his hunting knife idly between his fingers, watching the engravings twist and writhe as it caught the light of the candles. Occasionally one of the commander's eyes would dart to the young rider but he ignored their curiosity.

"And what if they get sick of raiding peasants and decide to cross the Jiet River?"

"They won't cross," General Thrandron interjected, "They don't have the numbers yet."

"They might if we give them another month." Lord Walford's reasons for wanting the army gone could not be entirely selfless. As the Lord in command of Gilead maintaining accommodations for the army at full muster would be taxing at best, especially once winter set in.

"Our men need more training."

In his mind one of the mad eldunari was screaming, with a flick of his thoughts he subdued and silenced it.

"They can train on the move can't they?"

Lord Hamlin frowned bushy beard bristling, "Maybe but it would be more effective to stay here until the army is ready to march."

"And if the Varden do cross the river?"

"We'll crush them without a second thought." General Karst said slamming his meaty hand on the carved table and sending a jeweled goblet flying. He cursed vehemently.

Murtagh watched with detached interest as the ruby liquid spread across the polished wood, spiderwebbing its way through several aged maps. On one in particular the entire south of Alegaesia had been stained a dark crimson, wine mixing with ink. It made him think of the blood that would soon be spilt, painted across battlefields and country side. Anger, in equal parts directed at Galbatorix and the Varden curled into a hard knot in his chest. Only serving to fuel the desire to seek the recompense he so desired.

At a word the wine faded leaving the paper as it was before.

"And what would you suggest we do Master Dragon Rider? As the leader of this army?" He felt the eyes of the congregation upon him.

Setting down the knife he fixed them with an intent gaze glare. Lord Halmin quailed. "The Army will go south."

General Thrandon was the first to speak again, "There is still the matter of timing. It will take months to march the entire army south to Surda, and mobilizing this many men will take time as well."

"How soon?"

The general scratched his balding head, "A few days I would think, maybe two at the least."

"Then we march in two days." Murtagh left no room for debate in his voice, and was impressed with the level of respect and credence they paid to his words. His decision would always be the final one. Then again anything else would have been intolerable. By virtue of his status as rider and the express commands of Galbabtorix he controlled more power than any number of them. Also he suspected many of them were afraid of him. After all he knew all to well: fear was a far better leash than elegant words.

_King Galbatorix has given you much power. _Thorn remarked thoughtfully.

_Yes, and I have paid dearly for it. _

Lord Hamlin glanced down at several sheets of paper, "Yes that's doable. So long as—"

At that moment one of the many nameless squires that followed the lords wherever they went poked his head through the door.

"M'lords there's a woman here seeking an audience."

"What's her name?" Karst asked as he poured a fresh goblet full.

"Iltani of the Black Hand M'lords."

"Send her in."

A moment later a woman dressed in crème colored silk glided through the door. She held her head high and her curtsy was but a slight dip of her knees. Her dark skin glimmered in the candle light and her long black hair was left to hang down her back. Murtagh looked at her and was reminded sharply of…

"What's your business woman?" Karst asked, his voice gruff and demanding.

She looked at his haughtily, "I do not come for you General Karst." Then she turned her eyes to Murtagh, "I was sent to tell you that Captain Stockton's company has arrived." On the last word her lips curled upwards in obvious disgust, clearly displeased that she had been used as a mere messenger.

He glanced at the lords and generals, "This meeting is over. You're all dismissed."

When they were gone he looked at Iltani. She dipped her head, "My lord."

"Do you know what condition the men are in?"

"While we prevailed it seems that the battle did not go smoothly and all but a few of the survivors are injured."

"How many dead?"

"Of the one hundred and eighty no more than seventy remain."

Murtagh frowned. The mission had not been a relatively complex one and he saw no reason for such a monumental loss of life.

"Where is Captain Stockton?"

"In the infirmary." She smoothed the front of her dress, the rings at her fingers flashing. "Do you need me to escort you?"

"No, you are dismissed." He knew the way. She departed with a swish of fabric.

On his way to the courtyard of the fortress he signaled Thorn with his mind.

_I need to get down to the barracks. Can you carry me?_

In response the dragon sent an image of himself circling low over the city.

Out in the courtyard he was temporarily blinded by the light after so long in the darkness. Then the enormity of Thorn swooped down, obscuring the sun. His armor creaked slightly as he climbed atop his partners back.

With a great thrust the dragon launched himself skywards, the houses below dwindling.

_How was the meeting?_

_ We will march the day after tomorrow._

_ Ahhh. It will be good to stretch my wings and fly again. _He turned lazily and began a decent towards a large clearing in the rows of barrack where a large tent had been erected. _Do you think it was negligence on the Captain's part that caused so many deaths?_

_ We will have to see. _

Thorn landed in the clearing with earth jarring force. He dismounted and Thorn curled up in a shallow depression in the ground beside the pavilion. Murtagh had chosen to reside here while in Gilead so that Thorn could remain at his side at all times. Of course he had been offered rooms within the fortress, however, Thorn could not fit within the passage ways and had no desire to sleep in the cold dank courtyard. The pavilion suited Murtagh fine enough, after all soon they would all be living in tents when the army marched south.

Leaving Thorn basking in the sun light he started off at a brisk pace. The three or so guards which had been stationed at the entrance of the tent followed, forming a column behind him.

The infirmary was a collection of low buildings, much like the soldiers housing only instead of being occupied by the allotted number of men, hundred to cots where lain out upon the wooden floors. Since the army had yet to engage in any major battles most of the room where relatively empty. However, in the third and decidedly largest building near to a hundred beds had been filled. Murtagh counted fifty four in the livery of Captain Stockton's company. The windows had been draped with cloth, better to keep out the flies, and it lent the room a darkened appearance. Healers rushed between the beds, tending to the men, and occasionally yelp of pain was hear as a wound was dealt with.

When he entered a woman came forward. Her lanky hair had been tied in a knot and her face was lined beyond its years. "Welcome m'lord. I am Maren. How may I help you?"

While she spoke politely he detected a touch of frustration in her voice, as well as the thoughts pouring off her which indicated that she really did not have time for such trivial niceties. There was a man in the next room who needed an arm set after all. Usually Murtagh would not have tolerated such insolence, but in this case he believed it was merited.

"I am here to speak with Captain Stockton."

"Ah." She frowned, "I see, right this way. And may I suggest your guards stay here. I don't think there is room for them among the cots."

Murtagh motioned for the men to wait then followed Maren. She led him down a row of men towards a back corner where a man with auburn hair was having a deep cut in his leg cleaned and dressed. As he passed some of the men called out, begging him to heal them. Murtagh ignored them, he did not have time to waste on such minor ailments.

"Get off me! I don't need any of your damn medicine!" Stockton was telling the girl who was trying to dress his wound. He caught sight of Murtagh, and though he could not stand bowed his head in respect, "Lord Murtagh, to what do I owe the honor?"

"I heard of your disastrous mission and I want to know the truth of how you managed to lose so many men."

"Bah! We won didn't we? Licked those rebels right and good!"

"You lost over a hundred men." Murtagh disliked the captain's bearings and the way he boasted of his 'victory'. "I intend to enter your mind and find out what exactly transpired."

He did not wait for a reply, it was not request after all. Reaching out with his own mind he seized hold of Stockton's thoughts and began to flick through those leading up to and around the skirmish. The man stiffened and Murtagh's mental probe dug deeper.

What he discovered was not entirely unexpected. The captain had allowed his men to drink copious amounts the night before they had engaged the Varden soldiers. While this might have made him popular with the men at the time, it was a different story the next day when the Varden had slaughtered them. Adding to this Stockton had made several questionable calls as to the plan of attack that had cost the lives of many under his command.

When he had learned all he could he released Stockton and the man sagged against the wall.

"You serve under General Karst?

"Yes sir."

"I will send a man to tell the General that I am relieving you of your duties. You will be stripped of your rank and serve as a foot soldier until such time as you prove your worth." Stockton was not a bad man Murtagh thought, but his negligence on the battle field had cost more than a few lives. The empire could not afford to place men like him in charge of its soldiers. He felt no regret over stripping Stockton of his title.

"What authority do you have to strip me of my office? You're not the general." Stockton bristled his voice angry.

"You would do well to remember to whom you're speaking," Murtagh said in a deadly quiet voice, "Next time you think to question I will be so forgiving."

"But sir for what reason—"

"I am stripping you of your title because you are unfit to lead the men under you're command. The negligence you have shown cannot be tolerated of men of your rank."

"Sir please! I beg you!" Stockton's face had faded from angry red to a splotchy sort of purple.

"That is all." Murtagh turned to leave just as the girl who had been trying to bind Stockton's leg rushed up again. She stopped dead in her tracks.

Murtagh recognized the light brown eyes, and the unruly hair stuffed hastily into a bun. But he had not thought to see them here. Rhind. He had thought she was a lady, the daughter of some minor lord. What was she doing here tending the sick?

_She could be a spy!_ Thorn warned.

Murtagh could not help agreeing with the dragon. This seemed too unlikely a coincidence. It was for that reason he reached out, tentative so as not to alert her of his presence, and pressed against her mind. Surprisingly her mind was not armored as he had expected.

_If she was a spy I would think she would better guard her thoughts. _He did not read her memories to see if she was hostile, instead merely monitored her emotions in reaction to meeting him.

Rhind stared at him for a moment, like a deer that has been surround by hunters. The thoughts poring off her were heavy with surprise, and he noted a touch of fear. She was not a threat. Unsurprisingly he sensed the memories of their last meeting seeping through her head as she stood there. Rhind's heart raced and a slight tinge colored her cheeks. Despite that he eyes remained cool.

"My lord, I hope you are well." She whispered smiling. He could sence the curiosity pooring off her, the desire to see what he would do next. But when he did not move, she turned walking past him to attend to the ex-captain Stockton. He watched her walk away and thought what a strange creature she was.

Outside of the healing rooms, once more in the brisk sunlight Murtagh turned to one of his guards.

"Inform General Karst of Captain Stockton and inform the twins that we will leave the day after tomorrow." At his word one of the men jogged off while the others fell into a brisk trot behind Murtagh. He was irritated by their constant presence.

While he walked he mulled over what had happened. He had not expected to see her of all people here. Even surrounded by all the blood and death her eyes had sparkled as they had in Urubaen. And compared to the other aged healers she appeared young and fresh.

When they reached the pavilion Thorn was waiting. He snorted a plume of fire—sending the men reeling backward—and Murtagh could feel his impatience with the direction his riders thoughts had taken.

_If you desire this feeble flat faced female summon her and think nothing more of it. It is unlikely she could refuse you._

He realized that what Thorn said was true. Not only was he in control of the Generals and Lords who controlled the army, but also the individual soldiers and those who served them.

"Aldun." He called and the man came running up, his armor clanking.

"Yes my lord?"

"There is a healer that goes by the name of Rhind, I wish to speak with her. Inform her she has received my summons." He had a proposition to discuss with _lady_ Rhind.

Her heart hammered as she drew aside the entrance flap to the great pavilion. What had she done? Why had she been so stupid as to look at him, much less speak?!

He was waiting for her, standing by one of two folding camp chairs. She curtsied, "My lord Murtagh."

His face was dark, and in his polished steel armor he did indeed look very lordly, if not crueler than before.

She glanced around his quarters. They were not nearly as luxurious as they had been in Urubaen but still put the rooms she shared with twenty other healers to shame. A brazier burned in the center of the room, while chests of books and papers stood open. In the corner a four posted bed was heaped with silks and fur. In her faded brown dress and blood stained apron she felt very out of place and desperately wished she had been given the opportunity to change.

"Rhind." He inclined his head, "I would call you lady but you're clearly not."

"No, I'm not. Though I'm flattered that you think I am worthy of a title."

"Ladies bore me." He turned to remove his black gloves. The fine velvet was stained with dirt and something else that might either have been dried blood or wine. As he stripped off the gloves she studied the face of the man she had once bedded. It had only been a little over a month but already he seemed older, sterner, and more dangerous. His expressive eyebrows where drawn sharply together, though she saw no reason for him to be angry.

_Beware! Beware!_ Rhind's every nerve screamed, _This is not the same man you met in Urubaen._

"If I might be so bold as to ask, why have you summoned me?"

He glanced at her, "I was curious. I did not take you for a healer."

"And why is that?"

"It doesn't suit you."

She could not keep one of her eyebrows from creeping upwards, "And then what _am_ I suited for."

"That depends," He gestured lazily to one of two folding chairs set a small table, "sit."

She did, and so did he, movements stiff in his armor. She watched him warily, never moving her eyes from his. Last time they met it had seemed to her that his eyes burned with silent intensity and the time desire. They still burned though with what enigmatic emotion she could not guess. It might have been anger, but then it might have been something else.

"I am sure you remember our last meeting."

Rhind felt her cheeks burn under his cool gaze. Trying to preserve her dignity she drew herself up, "I do believe our last meeting was a mistake upon my part."

"Yet you do not strike me as the sort of woman who learns from her mistakes." His voice was cool, yet underlined by the same inexplicable emotion as colored his eyes.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You cannot hide things from me Rhind, not when I have already seen inside your mind."

"What?!" Her cheeks flared with heat again, but this time it was not from shame, "When?! How?!"

He shrugged dismissively, "When I first saw you in the infirmary I thought you might have been a spy."

Despite the situation she did not try to keep the anger out of her voice. "So you read my mind?!"

"Only you're emotions and reactions at the time, I did not go through your memories. Though I suggest you learn to guard your thoughts better in the future."

She sat back rather affronted. "And what exactly did you learn from my reaction?"

"More than enough to satisfy my curiosity. You are a very interesting woman." Rhind felt a chill run down her back and gooseflesh raise on her arms. Hadn't he said something very similar so many weeks ago in Urubaen? "And now I wish to strike a bargain with you, so to speak."

She closed her eyes knowing full well what he intended, "You cannot seriously think I will agree to this?"

"I think you are a smart girl," She wondered if that was supposed to be a threat, "I would be…pleased if you would share my company in the evenings."

She ought to refuse, she knew it full well. She did not want to be involved with this powerful hardened man. But even as she liked to think herself sensible, Rhind had always enjoyed playing with fire, and she could help but remembering how his touch had made her blood burn. But the problem with fire was that in the end you always got burned.

"And what would the terms of this agreement be?" She asked, stalling for time, "I do not suppose you would simply allow me to resume my life usual."

"You would come to me at night or any other time I would call upon you. As for your daytimes you would be permitted to continue your work in the infirmary. And while you are mine I will permit no other man to lay hand upon you. I do not share what is mine. And of course any treachery will be met with firm consequences."

She looked at the dragon night. He had seemed so innocent when she had left him sleeping in his chambers in Urubaen. There was no trace of that now. He was a rider, and leader. She could not hope to refuse a man such as him. Nor—though her common sense railed against it—did she want to.

"I accept your offer Murtagh son of Morzan."

It seemed to her that he flinched at these words. "Then my guards will escort you here at sun down, dress presentably."

He returned to his pavilion many hours later, when the sun had already dipped beneath the horizon. The commanders had been drinking and feasting in the holdfast, enjoy their last few nights in Gilead. Now as he walked alone through row upon row of barracks he watched the men come and go. The soldiers did not recognize him without the hulking presence or of Thorn and as obscured by shadows as he was.

Bawdy laughter and loud voices echoed between the squat buildings, occasionally accompanied by a snatch of song. Once or twice someone crossed his path, mostly women with their faces painted. They had the unmistakable look of whores, the kind what would dog the army anywhere. But they did not bother Murtagh, their bosoms already jangling with coins.

Thorn was not curled in his usual place beside the tent. Murtagh knew he had gone hunting tonight, to replenish his energy before the army departed and because he claimed 'he did not want to be privy to the mating of humans'. That comment alone in the day had made Murtagh smile.

Rhind was already there when Murtagh drew open the cloth flaps. She curtsied with a whisper of 'lord murtagh'. He acknowledged her with a nod. She had indeed dress nicely, in a rather faded but still presentable red satin gown. Her hair was braided and her skins scrubbed clean.

He sat at the small carved table that had been brought down from the citadel. Two wine glasses sat upon the small folding table. Rhind filled them and proffered one to Murtagh.

"Wine?"

He took it from her and swirled the contents, "If I remember correctly last time I was the one serving you."

She smiled, corners of her mouth quirking upwards, "Well this is not like last time, is it?"

"No." His fingers wrapped around the skin of her wrist. A tan and freckles had begun to creep across it. He drew her up to face him.

She raised an eyebrow, "You're very eager. I would have thought you'd want to drink away your problems first."

He wondered what she could possibly know of his problems, "They will not be drunk away." He had already tried and he did not have the patience to wallow in pity for the dead. If blood was on his hands so be it.

"And you think you can fuck them away?" As ever her forwardness and insight surprised him, though he was becoming more accustomed to it.

"You think that is why I wish you to serve me in the evenings?"

"I do. Though I must admit I am quite new to the business of whoring myself."

"Considering how you behaved in Urubaen I am not sure if I believe you."

"There is a difference between whoring one's self and enjoying your youth." Her eyebrows drew together, "Of course men have asked me but I have refuse them."

"I am not like other men." He had no intention of beguiling or charming her, merely told her the truth. Nor would he ask for promises or oaths. He was not deluded enough to believe that their arrangement was any more than it truly was: a practically arraignment. For while he desired her he held no particular emotional attachment to the woman standing before him.

"Other men say that."

"Is that so?" He crossed the distance between them in a single stride. There was something about her that set his blood to boil and filled his veins with fire. She was too bold, taunting him with her words, but that only made him want her more. He would show her the truth of his words until she no longer remembered her own name and was burned across every inch of her rebellious skin.

Murtagh did not need wine, instead he drunk himself on the taste of her skin. Her teeth grazed down his neck and across his color bone where the fabric of his tunic dipped. One of his hands found her breasts while the other went lower caressing her through the fabric of her gown. Her breath hitched at the contact.

"Take it off."

The thick satin of her dress fell to the ground with a dry rustle. Unlike before she wore no under garments and stood completely bare in the center of the pavilion. Murtagh watched the shadows dance across her skin. Though he had seen her in such a manner before she seemed different to him. There were shadows in her eyes that had not been there before. She was still filled with the same vitality as before but now it seemed matured. _We are matched now, and I think she will suit me better for it. _ One of his hands found the small of her back, drawing her into him. He was pressed against the soft of her stomach and as she moved with the rhythm of his mouth he could not contain the moan that came forth.

Rhind smirked, drawing away and breaking the contact. His eyes narrowed and he frowned.

She eyed his tunic and breaches. "Don't you think you should return the favor?" Her lips were swollen from where he had bitten them. She did not wait for a response instead began to undo the laces of his tunic, removing them at a torturously slow pace. When finally the garment was gone and the cold air whipped against his skin she began of his breaches.

Murtagh gritted his teeth as those too fell free and her fingers hovered mere inches from him.

"I thought I told you not to tease me woman."

Almost delicately she brushed the tip of her finger against him, her smile peevish.

He growled low in his throat, hands digging into skin.

"Patience" She whispered into his lips before sinking to her knees, trailing lips across his stomach before finally she found him. Murtagh's fingers knotted in her hair, tearing it free of its restraint with his urgency. Her lips where soft and warm as they planted kisses all up and down his length before finally taking him completely into her mouth. But just when he was nearing release she drew back, gazing up at him with bright eyes.

"Not yet," Her voice was husky and raw with desire, "I want you to fuck me first."

With a snarl Murtagh gathered her up in his arm. He pushed her back to one of the posts of his bed, her legs wrapping around his waist even as he lowered into her. One hand braced against the post he thrust. Rhind cried out, her hands knotted in his hair. Murtagh felt a thrill to see her so entirely depended upon him, powerless. Even as he was to her.

Tearing away from the pole Murtagh threw her down upon the silk of the bed. She lay sprawled there, looking up at him with luminous eyes. Her hair, which had been braided was now a tangled mess. She was not beautiful. She was wild.

He came down on her hard. Legs thrown over his shoulders her backed arched, head thrown against the pillows. He bit at her neck and she moaned, breathless and soft. Her mouth moved, forming words he could not quite make out, until he realized with jolt that it was his name. Low and soft she repeated it like a prayer. It was this more than anything that sent him over the edge. What happened next he was sure half the soldiers in the army could hear. Not that it mattered, she was his after all. Not theirs.

When they were both spent he lay with his head upon the soft swell of her stomach. Rhind's hands gently caressed his hair before moving on to explore the skin of his back.

Her fingers paused and her voice was nothing more of a hushed whisper, "You are not…like other men."

He was surprised to feel his desire pulse to life again so soon. He was tired yes, but what was sleep when he had the energy of a hundred eldunari? They had the entire night.

Rising up on his hands he kissed a trail down her center. She shivered and Murtagh looked up at her through disheveled dark hair. Her pretty amber eyes alert a smile of fiendish delight playing across her pink lips.

"Again."


End file.
